Once more, my boy, the summer sun has evoked long fields of bristling bayonets from the seed sown in spring tents, and the thunder of the shower is echoed by the roar of the scowling cannon. Onward, right onward, sweeps the Sunset Standard of the Republic, to plant its Roses and its Lilies on the soil where Treason has so long been the masked reaper; to epitaph with its eternal Violet the honored battle-graves of the heroic fallen, and to set its sleepless Stars above the Southern Cross in a new Heaven of Peace.

In my voyage down the river, to witness the great battle for Richmond, I took my frescoed dog, Bologna, and my gothic steed, Pegasus. The latter architectural animal, my boy, has again occasioned an optical mistake. Being of a melancholy turn, and partaking somewhat of the tastes of the horrible and sepulchral German Mind, the gothic charger has peregrinated much in a churchyard near Washington, frequently standing for hours in that last resting-place, lost in profound mortuary contemplation, to the great admiration of certain vagrant crows in the atmosphere. On such occasions, my boy, his casual pace is, if possible, rather more _requiescat in_ "_pace_" than on ordinary marches. I was going after him in company with a religious chap from Boston, who is going down South to see about the contrabands being born again, when we caught sight of Pegasus, in the distance. The sagacious architectural stallion had just ascended the steps leading into the graveyard, my boy, and presented a gothic and pious appearance. The religious chap clutched my arm, and says he:

"How beautiful it is, my fellow-sinner, to see that simple village church, resting like the spirit of Peace in the midst of this scene of war's desolation."

"Why, my dear Saint Paul," says I, "that's my gothic steed, Pegasus."

"Ahem!" says he. "You must be mistaken, my poor worm; for I can see half way down the aisle."

"The perspective," says I, "is simply the perspective between the hind legs of the n.o.ble creature, and his rear elevation deceives you."

"Well," says the religious chap, grievously, "if you ever want to do anything for the missionary cause, my poor lost lamb, just skin that horse and let me have his frame for a numble chapel, wherein to convert contrabands."

[Ill.u.s.tration: REQUIESCAT IN "PACE."

ARCHITECTURAL VIEW OF THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS--REAR ELEVATION.]

On my way down the Potomac to Paris, my boy, with Pegasus and the intelligent dog Bologna, I met Commodore Head, of the new iron-plated Mackerel fleet, who was taking his swivel Columbiad to a blacksmith, to have the touch-hole repaired. The Commodore met with a great disappointment at Washington, my boy. He ordered the great military painter, Patrick de la Roach, to paint him a portrait of Secretary Welles, Cabinet size. When the picture came home, my boy, it was no larger than a twenty-five-cent piece, frame and all; and the portrait was hardly perceptible to the naked eye.

"Wedge my turret!" says the Commodore, in his iron-plated manner, "I wouldn't give a Galena for such a picture as that. What did you make it so small for, you daubing cuss?"

"Didn't you want it Cabinet size?" says the artist.

"Batter my plates! of course I did," says the Commodore.

"Well," says the artist, earnestly, "if you ever attended a Cabinet meeting, you'd know that that is exactly the Cabinet size of the Secretary of the Navy."

The Commodore related this to me, my boy, in the interval of naval criticisms on the gothic Pegasus, whom he p.r.o.nounced as incapable of being hit at right angles by a sh.e.l.l as the Monitor. "Explode my hundred-pounder!" says the Commodore, admiringly, "I don't see any flat surface about that oat-crushing machine. Perforate my armor, if I do!"

A great battle was going on upon the borders of Duck Lake when we reached Paris, my boy, and on ambling to the battle-field with my steed and my dog, I found the Mackerel Brigade blazing away at the foe in a thunder-storm and vivid-lightning manner.

Captain Villiam Brown, mounted on the geometrical steed Euclid, to whom he had administered a pinch of Macaboy to make him frisky--was just receiving the answer of an orderly, whom he had sent to demand the surrender of a rebel mud-work in front.

"Did you order the rebel to surrender his incendiary establishment to the United States of America?" says Villiam, majestically returning his canteen to his bosom.

"I did, sire," says the Orderly, gloomily.

"What said the unnatural scorpion?" says Villiam.

"Well," says the Orderly, "his reply was almost sarcastic."

"Ha!" says Villiam, "what was't?"

"Why," says the Orderly, sadly, "he said that if I didn't want to see a dam fool, I'd better not go into a store where they sold looking-gla.s.ses."

"Ah!" says Villiam, nervously licking a cork, "that _was_ sarcastic.

Let the Orange County Howitzers push to the front," says Villiam, excitedly, "and we'll shatter the Southern Confederacy. h.e.l.lo!" says Villiam, indignantly, "Who owns that owdacious dog there?"

I looked, my boy, and behold it was my frescoed canine, Bologna, who was innocently discussing a bone right in the track of the advancing artillery. I whistled to him, my boy, and he loafed dreamily toward me.

The Orange County Howitzers thundered forward, and then hurled an infernal tempest of sh.e.l.l and canister into the horizon, taking the roofs off of two barns, and making twenty-six Confederate old maids deaf for life. At the same instant, Ajack, the Mackerel sharpshooter, put a ball from his unerring rifle through a chicken-house about half a mile distant, causing a variety of fowl proceedings.

"Ah!" says Villiam, critically, "the angels will have to get a new sky, if the artillery practice of the United States of America keeps on much longer."

Meantime Company 2, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, was engaging the enemy some distance to the right, under Captain Bob Shorty; and now there came a dispatch from that gallant officer to Villiam, thus:

"_The Enemy's Multiplication is too much for my Division. Send me some more Democrats._

"CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "the Anatomical Cavalry and the Western Centaurs are already going to the rescue. Blue blazes!" says Villiam, cholerically, "Why don't that blessed dog get out of the way?"

I looked, my boy, and, behold! it was my frescoed canine, Bologna, calmly reasoning with a piece of army beef, in the very middle of the field. I whistled, my boy, and the intelligent animal floated toward me with subdued tail.

The obstruction being removed, the Anatomicals and the Centaurs charged gloriously under Colonel Wobert Wobinson, and would have swept the Southern Confederacy from the face of the earth, had not the fiendish rebels put a load of hay right in the middle of the road. To get the horses past this object was impossible, for they hadn't seen so much forage before in a year.

"Ah!" says Villiam, contemplatively, "I'm afraid cavalry's a failure in this here unnatural contest. Ha!" says Villiam, replacing the stopper of his canteen, and quickly looking behind him, "What means this spectacle which mine eyes observe?"

A cloud of dust opened near us, and we saw Captain Samyule Sa-mith rushing right into headquarters, followed by Company 6, having an aged and very reliable contraband in charge.

"Samyule, Samyule," says Villiam, fiercely, "expound why you leave the field with your force, at this critical period in the history of the United States of America?"

"I'm supporting the Const.i.tution," says Samyule, breathlessly, "I'm a conservative, and--." Here Samyule tumbled over something and fell flat on his stomach.

"By all that's blue!" says Villiam, frantically, "why the thunder don't somebody shoot that unnatural dog!"

I looked, my boy, and beheld it was my frescoed canine, Bologna, who had run between the legs of the fallen warrior, with the remains of a captured Confederate chicken. I whistled, my boy, and the faithful creature angled towards me with mitigated ears.

"I'm supporting the Const.i.tution," repeated Samyule, rising to his feet and examining a small, black bottle to see if anything had spilt, "I'm a conservative, and have left the field to restore this here misguided contraband to his owner, which is a inoffensive rebel. War," says Samyule, convincingly, "does not affect the Const.i.tution."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "that's very true. Take the African cha.s.seur to his proper master, and tell him that the United States does not war against the rights of man."

Now it happened, my boy, that the withdrawal of this force to carry out the Const.i.tution, so weakened the Advance Guard, that the Southern Confederacy commenced to gain ground, and Villiam was obliged to form Company 3, Regiment 5, in line immediately, for a charge to the rescue.

He got the splendid _corps_ to leave the distillery where they were quartered, for a few minutes, and says he:

"There's beings for you, my nice little boy! Here's veteran centurions for you."

"Yes," says I, admiringly. "I never saw so many red noses together before, in all my life."

"Ah!" says Villiam, dreamily, "there's nary red about them, except their noses. And now," says Villiam, "you will see me lead a charge destined to cover six pages in the future history of our distracted country."

"Soldiers of the Potomac!" says Villiam, drawing his sword, and hastily sharpening it on the left profile of his geometrical steed, "your comrades are engaging nine hundred and fifty thousand demoralized and routed rebels, and you are called upon to charge bayonets. Follow me."

Not a man moved, my boy. Many of them had families, and more were engaged to be married to the women of America. They were brave but not rash.

Villiam drew his breath, and says he: "The United States of America, born on the Fourth of July, 1776, calls upon you to charge bayonets, Come on, my brave flowers of manhood!"

Here a fearless chap stepped out of the ranks, and says he: "In consequence of the heavy dew which fell this morning, the roads is impa.s.sable."